


Messy hair and rain soaked shoes (Still trying to win but we always lose)

by KaneNogami



Category: HiGH&LOW: THE WORST (TV)
Genre: Complete refusal to grieve someone you think is lost, M/M, Memory Loss, Odajima Yuken has issues, terrible life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaneNogami/pseuds/KaneNogami
Summary: Todoroki Yosuke is dead.Odajima Yuken disappears.Isn't it the same story? In another life, the roles could have been reversed—yet, would the ending be exactly the same? Ah, he does not bother grieving or getting lost in what-ifs. That's his carefree mind, the one he got scolded for by someone who couldn't break rules and hated nicknames.
Relationships: Odajima Yuken/Todoroki Yosuke
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9
Collections: High and Low Shipping Week





	1. People are born but we all decay

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 4 and 5, and since it's quite long I'll post the second part tomorrow. Thanks for reading!

The day where Todoroki Yosuke goes missing; gone in a blur, night sky basked in clouds hiding the stars from such terrible omen, the river swallowing him at once, is also the night where Odajima Yuken jumps after him, sunglasses thrown and forgotten on the bridge, hands pressed against the railing until he's on the other side.

They never retrieve the body, the stream as unforgiving as Oya High is with the remaining attackers. Sachio has to pull Odajima away from the riverbank with all his might, calm facade long cracked with worry. We could have lost you too, he doesn't shout, voice dying in his throat as how lost and soaked his friend is, trashing to go back into the deep waters where only doom is lurking.

Their relationship wasn't a secret; perhaps pretending to be fine would have been easier that way.

Odajima waits for days, wandering on the bridge, walking around the riverbed all for nothing. On the fourth day, Housen members find him sitting on the railing, legs dangling into the air, an absent expression on his face.

They tell Sachio.

There are screams on both sides, leadership unable to balance grief.

_I quit_ , Odajima eventually throws in their face, sorrow twisting his smile into horror.  


He isn't given permission to do so.  


Funerals are an odd affair without a body to mourn and ashes to keep close. He avoids the ceremony, not belonging there in the first place. How could he, he absentmindedly reminds himself, when he couldn't even save one person.

Todoroki Yosuke is dead.

Odajima Yuken disappears.

Isn't it the same story? In another life, the roles could have been reversed—yet, would the ending be exactly the same? Ah, he does not bother grieving or getting lost in what-ifs. That's his carefree mind, the one he got scolded for by someone who couldn't break rules and hated nicknames.

  
  


Murayama calls him Todo-chan, at the funeral.

Odajima would have laughed at that, had he been present.

Instead, he stands on the railing, arms outstretched, feet balancing the weight from one side to another.

_I hate you_ , he thinks, _I hate you, Todoroki_.

Sawamura tugs him down, hands firmly pressed against his shoulders.  


Odajima shrugs.  
  


In another life, college would still have been out of grasp. Smart, yet inept at studying, mind bouncing from one idea to another, body unsteady or too fast, unleashed like countless storms. Always the right answers, offered in the worst fashion. Basking in regrets doesn't do much anyway. He stripped himself of his identity upon leaving the town, golden hair cut and dyed away—the sensation of fingers threading gently among it now a dreadful feeling—last name disregarded as if he had always been Yuken, and nothing more.  


Scornful voice sounding too much like his echoing in front of the wrong people, and suddenly he gets dragged into an easier hell. He laughs and laughs until he cannot feel anything at all. 

  
  


"Hey Arata, could you clean the remaining tables for me?"  


Why asking, if it's more akin to an order. Rolling his eyes, he grabs a cleaning rag, going through the room in silence. The bar doesn't offer much space away from the long counter, mismatched stools decayed by age, tables surrounded by neon signs tucked away behind fake plants. He sighs at the familiar view, tarot cards spread on the bar counter, being turned over one after another. He hears the rattling sounds of bracelets around that guy's wrists, and the soft buzzing of the fridge where they keep food for the staff and a couple of customers.  


We're not here to serve meals, only drinks, the boss reminds them sometimes, when she is present.  


Most of the time, it's only the two of them, pretenses of communication thrown aside alongside last names and politeness. Arata doesn't dislike Noriyuki. Nor he appreciates him either. The bar is all he has, flat tucked upstairs, barely big enough for himself, let alone for the two of them. A good thing his coworker is known for wandering outside often, offering readings and trading 'truths and secrets' for whatever he can get.  


"Can I catch a glimpse of your past?"  


Using the broom he had started to clean the floor with, he swiftly hits the bothersome guy on the back of the head.  


"I told you to cease with that nonsense."

Noriyuki offers a lazy smile while spinning around on his stool, holding the Emperor card.  


"Ah yes, memories which cannot be retrieved. That's what you fear, hm, Arata?"  


Arata. That's the name they gave him at the hospital, on the day he got discharged. A fresh start with a meaningful sense he found distasteful. Still, how was he meant to name himself without knowing anything about who he was?  


Once more, he lifts the broom, although this time Noriyuki is fast on his feet, dodging with ease. Their boss hired both of them due to their circumstances, offering second chances Arata isn't certain are necessary. After all, for all he knows he is merely a stranger anywhere he goes. 

Months of coma, nobody claiming him as their own. Only to wake up in a room too warm and uncomfortable blankets on top of him.  


(Learning countless things from scratch, body and mind out of sync.)  


As for Noriyuki—he has little care for his story, especially as the other returns to his precious cards.  


"I'm going out."  


"Heeeey?"  


"My shift is over."  


How long has it been? One year, eight months and six days since he woke up. That's odd, how easily he can keep track of certain things, without having a semblance of grasp of who he is supposed to be. 

Cold streets are a relief, glasses getting foggy from the sudden change in temperature, fingers having to be tucked inside his pockets. The scar aches underneath black hair, and he tilts his head to the side without noticing. The sensation will vanish soon enough.

The casual tea shop, which doubles as a bookstore, he enjoys visiting on his days off is already closed, thus he is doomed to a silent walk. Noriyuki isn't that chatty, although he seems to produce some odd background static noise just by existing.

Should it be familiar by now? After working together for such length of time, he should at least have made an effort to step forward and get closer. Perhaps he has always been a solitary person, ah how is he meant to know.

Footsteps echo in the deserted street, and he makes no move to avoid the individual coming from the opposite direction, assuming they'll step back first.

What happens is that neither of them seems willing to do so and their shoulders collide in a painful manner. His muscles tense, fists ready for an argument—that happens often, when people get too close, as if he was still a teenager having something to prove. At such hour, people tend to let their tongue be loosened by alcohol and the lack of witnesses to judge their actions.

Isn't cowardly, to fight without any sense of glory or a goal? Only for the thrill of it—that does sound boring, if all you get is that couple of seconds where everything turns slow, your opponent crashing down. 

He'd like to be able to enjoy it, if he has to fight.  


As he stares, too late, at the person—immediately they give out an odd impression, hollow gaze not even bothering to linger on him, clothes unfit in a kind of way which feels like neglect, oversized jacket obviously borrowed without a return date—they let out a soft humming sound.

Arata notices though, the way the body shifts, one foot slightly behind the other, dominant arm pushed back to strike better seconds later.

"You weren't paying attention more than I was," he scoffs, unimpressed. As if dying once had turned him into some weird sage filled with wisdom—if it was the case, he wouldn't suffocate in a bar lacking space, surrounded by patrons who can only vomit their stories over and over, mistakes playing like a dying record.

Saying things like ' _learn from what you have done_ ' or ' _don't cheat and then cry over yourself'_ why are such sentences forbidden? They would solve much more than pouring alcohol down their throats.

Suddenly, as he is about to lunge forward, stepping past the person to scare them, he notices their crestfallen expression. They have lifted their head, boyish face staring as if he were the result of a deranged mind, edges too sharp, and fingers lifted only to stop in mid-air.

"You."

"Me," he repeats, blood rushing to his face. Would this be the encounter he was waiting for? A glimpse of a past he had simply pushed aside, unable to mourn properly over what never was.  


" _You_!"

"I don't know who you are," or who am I, or anything at all.

He loathes that insidious despair, how it can invade his senses after all this time. Throwing his story isn't what he wishes to do, pity bruising his ego and making little sense. Still, if that's his one chance—

"Memory loss due to an accident. Now, will you tell me—"

Laughter blossoms, cruel and harsh. It spreads into his veins until the man in front of him is too close, chin lifted to stare at his face, odd sunglasses covering his gaze. Would an old friend behave in such manner? He has no time to ponder over the answer, as he catches a fist being clenched from the corner of his eyes, barely dodging the hit which comes right for his ribs.  


It dissolves into a series of blows from each side, battle started without consent. He has been a fighter—a capable one too, his body has told him so countless times. Reacting right away at danger, allowing him to avoid the worst patrons or Noriyuki dropping glasses on him in the middle of their shift. Out of breath, he realizes that his coat is getting in the way, and the other fights as if there was no tomorrow.  


(That's what happens when you do not allow grief to take over, not even once.)

For that guy, perhaps it's the case. 

They must be acquainted, a shame he cannot truly dwell on it when a foot crashes against his chest, making him fall. His body has forgotten less than his mind, yet he isn't as competent as he certainly was.  


A sneaker presses against his stomach, until it's painful, the guy staring at him with a smile so off he wonders if he is one of these idiots who blows his mind off for reprieve, swallowing pills and everything in his reach.  


"I'll tell you who you are, if you beat me, stranger" that's too cheerful, and the foot is removed, the violent creature crouching down and flicking his forehead, "next time though~"  


And then he is gone before Arata is back up. 

  
  


("Todoroki, I want a rematch too."

"You wouldn't beat me."

Laying on an old couch in a mindless school, a head surrounded by golden hair on his lap, fingers threading against it without aim.  


"Hm, it's what I tell you about Mahjong and yet you still let me challenge you~"  


An infuriated sigh, a body suddenly moving, lips pressed together.  


"What if somebody sees us?"

"I don't care. Don't pretend you do either."

"Fine," someone relents, laughter echoing through the room.)

  
  


He screams. Alone in the middle of nowhere, the chain of his sunglasses held so tightly the pattern is sinking into his skin. The dead should stay dead unless you want to beat them up, or something.  


That man, who bears Todoroki's face, weak man who couldn't avoid his hits nor understand them; a stranger, changeling who stole what was left of his mind. Ah, that's not a lot, Yuken muses.  


A rough hand grabs his shoulder, tugging him down. Nowhere doesn't exist as a reprieve if it's every place on Earth where he has been over the past year. Which boss is it? Namazuo? Ren? Their faces have long blurred into one, leaving imprints on his face and body when he isn't quick enough, not up for whatever job they have.  


"Watcha' crying for, Yu?"  


That's a joke, you know, between all the people he works for: you can give any task to Yuken, and he'll do it, because he doesn't care if he lives or not, yet you can't kill him because fate wants to keep him miserable.  


"I have no idea," he hadn't even noticed the tears. Whatever, they are easy to wipe away. Accident, memory loss? So what, his boyfriend floated away and then ended up there? And he's simply what's left behind, remains of a life the other has long given up on. He grins until his jaw hurts, feeling like creating a disaster by saying the wrong thing once again.  


A palm presses over his mouth though, forcing him to shut up. Street rules have no empty space on the tragedy bingo for compassion.  


Oh, it's Ren. He kinda recognizes him now. Without caring about that detail.  


Housen carried itself with pride, and himself, who was so close to Sachio—ah he has lost that too. The truth is that Yuken has never been worried of people who boil with anger, of shouts and rage. His parents had that into them, but only against each other. He grew up watching that strange show, yelling and cries for help becoming background noise.  


"Did you get into a fight?"  


Still he isn't allowed to answer properly, he doesn't say anything at all, hand holding his sunglasses against his back. He's glad he didn't have enough time to put them back on, or they would have been thrown aside without care. A lesson without a goal.  


Annoyed, the man relents the pressure against his mouth only to grab dark hair, forcing him to raise his gaze to meet his. 

Sachio, he thinks, could be terrifying, a force of nature. That guy is simply an idiot. Thus he sticks his tongue out, pretending that the blow he gets for that is at least a little bit funny.   
  


(It's not.

He wants to hunt Todoroki down, to throw him back into the river himself.

No, he wants to jump with him, this time.)

"I have a job for you, you unstable brat, so listen for once."

"Yeah yeah, I'm paying attention," fingers press against the bruise on the corner of his lips. That's where Todoroki punched him, the first time they met. That's another fight he lost.  


He's too smart to be abandoned, that's why he works for Ren or Namazuo or anybody. After all, that's not hard to get called 'crazy', he only has to pretend that it isn't a painful life.

(A voice screams his name, followed by hands shoving him on the concrete.  


All he can see, for one moment, are the clouds above him.  


Then, the three—no, none of them matter. They were aiming for him.

Instead, the person they push against the railing until they fall backwards is—

"Todoroki!)

  
  


It's his fault, isn't it? 

He glares at his smartphone, job long done. Retrieving money with a smile and a dangerous voice, leaning too close to wave cheerfully at little children hiding in the back of the room. I'm sorry, he wants to say, but that's life. He is being cruel, even when he cannot beat these people up, can't find the will to attack so relentlessly for so little, and only warn them not to be late next time.  


He has no place to go home to anyway. Sleeping from one couch to another, empty futon he refuses to share—hey, you have a pretty face Yuken, you know—he wants to kill them all, some nights. To say he misses dyeing his hair and having friends and not being alone on some shitty balcony in the middle of the night because the person he is sleeping at is having sex with—urg he doesn't even want to know. 

Why aren't you putting money aside, they used to ask? He twirls his smartphone in his hands, switching to throwing into the air and catching it back as if there was no danger.  


He doesn't want to belong, even less to be found. To be dragged back and have to say 'hey I met Todoroki the other day, he doesn't remember, please can we rewind time just once?' He doesn't miss Housen, he repeats all the time at the back of his head, wishing he could erase faces and memories as easily as Todoroki did. That's another horrible thought.  


Hollow and upset he curls into himself, knees underneath his chin until he is crushing his ribcage.  


Todoroki is alive, his mind chants, and rather than joy, it's laced with sorrow so deep he is the one who is drowning this time around. 

Noriyuki and Anko fuss over his state for days, the latter, caring boss, dragging him to the clinic to ensure nothing is broken. His ribs are a bit bruised, he'll live. He is excused from some shifts, abandoned into the flat whose walls are covered in colorful garlands which light up at night, and stars painted everywhere. Noriyuki isn't one to care about property damage, nor he minds borrowing his clothes without asking sometimes.  


Laying on the futon, arms crossed over his chest, Todoroki drifts into possibilities.  


Perhaps he had people like that before—since no one came, assuming that was from lack of care was easy.  


Nonetheless, when he recalls the rage from that person, desperate moves trying to get him down—something is amiss, in his story.  


He grabs shoes and jacket, unable to breathe suddenly.  


Answers are out of his grasp, thus he drops them for now. Underneath bandages, he considers his body, how it has morphed into bruises and pieces which don't go together. That's what coma inflicts to you, physical therapy for months, and no chance to recover his memories. Doctors pretending it would be temporary, until there wasn't enough space left for lies on his chart.  


The streets are safe as long as you follow lights without getting too close, neon signs beckoning curious customers inside clubs with promises of fame and affection. All you end up with are empty pockets and a bitter taste on your tongue. He slips through drunk people, laughter and music mixing into a dull sound which pounds against the scar above his ear. Blunt trauma, probably from hitting something in the river.  


He should pick a sport, go to the gym—impossible to move properly inside the flat, to raise his arms without colliding with something—be ready for next time. The challenge should disgust him, right? Being told he'll get an explanation once he beats someone he doesn't even know. Then, why is a part of his heart aching for this? Ah, he supposes he has secrets too far gone to be retrieved.  


On the steps of a club, a person is crying, face hidden behind a bag. Either a trick, or a semblance of honesty.  


Uneasy, he walks by, keeping his gaze in front of him. Out he is out of view, the pitiful crying stops on its own. Perhaps because it was simply a ruse. 

  
  


(Nurses repeating questions.  


_ Do you have a name? Who are you?  
_

_What's your age?_  


Fatigue slowly invades the mind until everything is distorted.  


_ Hey, are you human, do you exist?  _

_Look at you, all alone_.

He pretends to be asleep.

Do not feed the fears.)  
  


Paths cross weeks later, another starless night, heaviness in his lungs as he walks back from the convenience store with dinner for Noriyuki and himself. Between two aisles, crouched down with red underneath his fingernails, he recognizes the enemy. Mystery of his past, oversized jacket offering the sight of a shoulder and a tank top which isn't enough for the weather. Unless you're fighting, body always too warm from rushing from one rival to another.  


He sighs, plastic bag heavy in his hands, walking to the other and pressing it against his hair. He throws his head back, pushing away the bag without care.  


"Oyo," bruised hand waving at him, hatred burning beneath colored lenses. At least it is how he interprets the sudden  


atmosphere, buzzing commercial from the speakers above them drowned by the presence on the floor.  


The guy gets up, hand loosely holding a bag of chips and nothing more. He tosses it into the air, body leaning forward to observe him. Arata isn't a painting—far from a masterpiece meant to catch the eye—and that idiot is starting to piss him off. He could leave, rather than waiting for him to pay for his items; be faster onto the streets, blending among the population which shouldn't be out at such hour, exhausted salarymen and women holding their phone tightly in case of someone getting too close.  


This country isn't safe or fair in the slightest.  


"Aren't you coming?" He says instead, bandages long gone off his torso yet not eager to return.  


With a wicked grin, the one who hasn't bothered to give out his name nods, stepping outside without bothering to pay for his chips, also grabbing a drink on the way. A glance at the tired clerk proves they haven't noticed, or that they couldn't care less.  


If they were old friends, capable of peace, they would sit together, sharing a meal before bruising their fists in a meaningless fight, answers and truths screamed so loud they would make the world shake. A shame they haven't achieved such closeness. They probably won't, anyway.  


Instead, they walk until they reach what used to be a playground, when it was still cared for. Now, rusty structures are on the verge of collapsing, and weeds have started to impose their presence over everything. He lowers his bag on a bench missing half of its planks.

  
  


His head is too close to the monkey bars, forcing him to duck to avoid cracking his skull open.

The other doesn't appear to care, pursuing his assault in the same fashion since the start; that's not meant to be a fight where both sides are equal.  


Hands grab the structure, as his rival lifts his legs at once, aiming for a kick right into his ribs again, using the bars as leverage. 

He trips on the floor to avoid getting hit, while the other has now managed to climb over the bars, standing on them as if he were on the top of the world. Except the sole things reflected behind him are menacing skies and a flickering lamppost.  


Triumph lasts only for a couple of seconds, before the enemy crouches down on his throne.  


"That's boring."

Without sunglasses, the piercing gaze is stronger—more honest too. Arata has left his glasses on the bench, alongside everything else, including his dignity apparently.  


Why does he have to be the loser twice? 

He does not. 

He'll have to work harder next time—or he can attempt to make a change now.  


"For you."

Pushing on his hands, he gets up, hands grabbing the other and throwing him down before he can react. That's a rough action, one which makes his palms sweaty and shoulder aching.  


Rolling on the old playground, the other spends a moment silent, until he gets loud—voice rising way above the cruel mockery from before.  


"Are you starting to remember? Was I careless?"  


Ignoring blood dripping from his elbow, jacket torn off from the collision with rocks and sand, he gets up, clenching his fists again.  


They are on completely different levels, yet—Arata grows more and more aware, as he dodges hits, trying to memorize patterns, of the other' shortcomings. When he grabs him, it's with both hands, and his punches do not carry as much strength as they are simply precise. Or rather they were, minutes earlier.  


Exhaustion weights heavily on his face, to the point Arata notices how he seems to lose his balance as the fight goes on. That's too long, anyway. Neither of them has enough energy left, and he guesses the battle will be won by luck more than strength. It makes him bitter somehow. 

All of this for the promise of a name—is it worth it? 

  
  


(Body crashing against another, cheers erupting from one side, defeated silence on the other.  


Arms wrapping around the figure using him as a crutch.  


"You okay?"  


"I'll live."  


Bittersweet victory, where personal fights were lost.  


Tired eyes watching, as sunglasses as retrieved from the jacket, one lens having to be pressed back properly with a clicking sound.

"I'm buying you a case next time I go out."

"Funny, coming from someone who used to throw his glasses carelessly."  


"Who told you that?"  


"Murayama."  


"That was a long time ago. And you need them, so stop being an idiot."

Mischievous gaze behind colored lenses, tongue sticking out.  


"Buy me the best case, then."  


"You're getting the cheapest."  


"You're treating me so badly!" 

A far away laughter.

It's all gone.)

  
  


His fist closes around the jacket, fabric being almost torn off—that's an old prize which might be the sole real possession that the other has, edges of the sleeves starting to fall apart, gashes from fights multiplying—letting out a slight rasp. 

As if he had long known he wouldn't win—no, as if he had never wanted the victory in the first place—his enemy ceases to struggle, eyes closed as he gets hit in the face. Arata only has to release his grip for him to stumble back after that. 

He watches as he sits, then otps to lay on the ground, weeds surrounding him. The other has blood running down his face, jaw badly bruised. 

  
That doesn't feel right. 

The thrill, the joy of finally being on the right path—it's all gone within seconds as he sits next to the stranger who is staring at the sky without a word.  


Maybe there are tears.  


He pretends not to see them—troubled by what they would imply—head tilted back to observe the dark sky.  


"You promised me my name, in exchange for beating you."

"I shouldn't have."

Words aren't as sharp as they should be, as if the person was struggling to say them. Considering their fight, that would make sense. Arata allows a reprieve, getting up to retrieve his things, and his, before sitting back. He opens the drink stolen earlier, pressing it against the cheek already bruising.  


The hiss of pain almost makes him smile, and he cannot figure why. A hint of—something familiar he isn't allowed to get back.  


"Here, sit up."  


The can is grabbed, and he spreads his palm against the guy's back to help him upright.  


"Todoroki Yosuke." 

Oh.

Arata takes a moment to digest that, fingers fumbling with the package of his sandwich. He's exhausted. He's Todoroki Yosuke. The name doesn't bring anything concrete for now. It's only two words put together.  


"They call me Arata here. You?"

"Yuken."

Nothing else is added, even after a pause. If it's a street name, Arata cannot judge. He has never used, outside of medical forms, the last name they gave him at the hospital. Only Arata. Once he manages to free his sandwich from his plastic prison, he takes a bite, ignoring how Yuken is slowly adjusting his position, knees against his chest, drinking while slightly rocking back and forth. The cold is absent, when their veins are boiling post-fight, thus he supposes it's a way to ease the tension.  


Yuken isn't fine.  


Arata isn't certain of how they met, of what Todoroki dared to do to get such hatred unleashed at him twice. He doesn't miss how the other stares at his damaged jacket, dejected at its state.  


"Where did I live?"  


He gets the name of the town, mumbled. Nothing else. He's pressing too far, and Yuken isn't willing to hold a conversation, sipping his drink as if it was stale.  


"Are you from the same place?"  


"No," that's a lie they both know it.  


Unsteady, yet unable to stay in place, Yuke stands up, starting to walk away without even a goodbye.  


_ You don't need me anymore, he seems to say.  _

Arata doesn't stop him. 

  
  


Todoroki will never return now that he has his name back. And he forgot his chips at the playground.  


Which one is sadder? 

Ah, definitely the chips. 

  
  


(On a bridge, a lifetime ago, a trembling boy holding a bouquet of flowers. Another standing on a bridge.  


"Jamuo, right? Can you hold onto this for me?"  


A phone with a white and black case, dropped into clumsy hands, a phone which was supposed to be thrown into the river. 

And then a boy waving goodbye, getting off the bridge, bag over his shoulder.)

  
  


He staggers back to whatever shithole is the closest, wiping blood with his sleeves until they are damp and uncomfortable. He throws the whole jacket in a trashcan, eyes blurry with tears which will leave his eyes painful if he doesn't grab artificial ones to ease the burning sensation later. 

Sunglasses hide the redness well enough for now, as he makes his way into another terrible night. He's tired. He should have made up a fake name—ah, too late for that. 

At least, the flat he intended to crash at is almost empty, except for a woman who was heading out for her shift at the bar when he arrived. It allows him to shower properly, patching each bruise. He shouldn't have thrown away his jacket, although it was dead and unusable—he has no money for a new one, and his old clothes have long been sold—he misses oversized cardigans, how warm they were. 

Could always steal one, yeah.  


Ah next time he gets paid, he'll try to make an effort. After throwing his clothes in the washer and getting changed with whatever he finds, he gets to bed.  


That would be cruel to have left Todoroki one more time without saying farewell. 

  
  


The next morning his eyes are so painful he has to head to the pharmacy, crumbled prescription taken from his pocket, to ask for new eye drops and artificial tears—his eye disease wouldn't have gotten so bad, hadn't he fucked up his treatment for the past year. He cannot remember at which place he left the others—and the pharmacist luckily takes pity on him.  


He lays on a bench later, applying one drop after another, leg dangling in the air as he wonders if he could run to the train station or something—after all, if he were Todoroki he would throw himself back—that's a lie. Housen must hate him, he is too scared to ever return.  


_I'm sorry, for ruining everything_ , he tells the gods of this world as he receives a couple of texts about his next work. _I'm sorry, but at least one of us will be happy now._

  
  


It's overwhelming, to step inside a school only to be met with silence, as if he were a ghost haunting them. He couldn't call, couldn't bear to know how they would react, nor he managed to book a train at first. It took his boss putting the money in his hands, thanking him for his hard work.

_No, that's wrong_ , Arata wanted to reply, _my home is here._  


Perhaps neither place is completely his.

There are footsteps echoing far away, someone calling a number as the rest stare. A group catches his attention, a bunch of people leaning against the second floor window, heaviness in their pose. One of them says that name which should be his. Todoroki.

He can accept that part.  


Finding himself online, discovering the pitiful story of this place; Todoroki Arata, that's who he is right now. Time has come to a halt for a while, as they are still unsure, and so he is.  


Then he hears a scream, in the midst of deafening silence, he blinks, turning toward the entrance getting hit by a fury which squeezes him so hard he loses his balance.  


"Todo!"  


Palms squish his face, and he instinctively tries to punch the other, who laughs with glee, dodging with ease. That's—kinder than what he expected.  


"We had a funeral for you," the guy says, putting a foot in his mouth without difficulty, "that was lame."  


Maybe there is something deeper behind the words, and the way one hand refuses to let go off his sleeve. Somehow—that's not so bad. 

  
  


There are introductions, a myriad of old faces he has lost forever. He says it first, obviously. And they understand. Two men wrap him into a hug in an abandoned room, and although it only lasts a couple of seconds, Todoroki feels alive. Not that his life at the bar was a lie—he has just missed something he didn't know he had lost. They are quick to push him back with the others, where they talk for hours. 

Stories of his younger day, of his arrival at Oya High, the way he attempted to rise without believing he could be stopped, that's kind of embarrassing. Although a part of him finds his past self's boldness refreshing. 

  
  


(How long until the outsider is found, hiding in the broadcasting room.  


Bodies pressed against each other, one reading, the second asleep against his chest. Secret hideout that people pretend to ignore.  


"Oya High is too easy to slip into." One will say later, as he always does. For now, he has fallen into a well-deserved nap.  


And the weight is appreciated, a reminder that neither of them is alone.) 

  
  


As the visit ends, leaving him dizzy with the amount of information he received, someone calls out for him in the hallway. The young man, a frown on his face, steps forward, holding what appears to be a phone out.  


"Is it mine?" that's the logical assumption, isn't it?  


Jamuo shakes his head, keeping his grip on the object for a moment and refusing to give it up.  


"I charged it earlier," he dodges the question, "he never came back for it so it should be yours."

Who is 'he'? He doesn't ask, Jamuo slipping the phone in his pocket before quickly exiting the hallway as the others return, asking him if he wants to get drinks with them.  


Ah, hard to refuse. 

  
  


The overwhelming emotion of being back only hits him that night, as he sleeps over at Shiba and Tsuji, unable to keep his eyes closed. Do they believe he has returned for good? Should he warn them about the train ride home the next day?  


He's on a bridge, metaphorically, unsure of which way he should head towards. Well, apparently he doesn't have an excellent track record with bridges in general. 

Sitting up, he grabs his glasses, slipping them on while researching for his coat's pocket.  


The phone appears to be a decent one—not too old. The case is simple too, without a name or any distinctive sign to indicate the owner. When he opens it though, there is a date written on paper squeezed there. As he presses the lockscreen, a stray cat looking at the camera, an old picture, a bit blurry, he realizes it's probably the code to unlock it. 

Todoroki—still getting used to being more than Arata, to have a beginning before the start, what feels like a previous life he can look at behind a glass without any interaction—expects countless possibilities.  


Getting his heart crushed so abruptly isn't one of them. 

  
On the screen, his past self smiles, a bit exasperated, arms wrapped around the shoulders of the person holding the camera.

Although the impression is totally different, prideful grin and blond hair, he recognizes the sunglasses, and the body leaning against his.  


Shaky fingers find the gallery, filled with pictures taken together—sometimes without permission, blurry fingers aiming for the phone—sometimes of hands linked together, of schools and dates, restaurants and aftermath of brawls, everyone together.  


Although it's late, he dares to press the play button on the latest video in the gallery, using his hand to muffle the sound.

" _Todoroki, what do you like the most about me?"_

_ "Which kind of question is that?"  
_

_ "Hey, you don't know?"  
_

_ "You asked too suddenly." _

He hears laughter, the phone unsteady as he sees his own annoyed face for a second. They must have been laying together on that couch he saw earlier at Oya... But already the camera is back on the other person _.  
_

_ "What I love the most about Todoroki is—"  
_

_ "Your hair."  
_

_ "Hm?"  
_

_ "It's soft. And your hands are great in mine. And your eyes—"  
_

_ "Todoroki, what are you so romantic for all, of a sudden?"  _   


He catches a glimpse of himself, stealing sunglasses, putting them away, one hand covering Yuken's eyes before he—swiftly steals the phone from him with a triumphant expression _.  
_

_ "What I love the most about Odajima is Odajima. That's all."  
_

The video ends right there, leaving him smaller than he thought he could be. It's worse to have these memories. At least, by having nothing left, he was supposed to escape grieving a past which held no weight. Now—he recognizes Odajima Yuken as this enraged person who couldn't bear his presence each time they met.  


A lover. 

He hadn't imagined that. 

Friendship, perhaps. 

Silently, he turns off the screen laying on his back, not having anything to say. 

He cries, without a sound, mourning for the first time. 

  
  


Todoroki Arata—Yosuke isn't retrievable, river having licked off all sense of that self from him—stands in front of Housen, clenching the phone inside his pocket without daring to take it out. He couldn't ask Shiba and Tsuji about Odajima, without being sure of what stopped him. 

Instead he makes his way as he will always do in this town; old spirit returned without having a shrine to rest his body, chin up high although surroundings are a blur without a beginning or an end, voices spiralling from surprise to a murmur he doesn't understand.

Housen's representatives come to him, staring past him as if they expected somebody else. One takes more careful steps, putting pressure against the floor, face unreadable.

"Todoroki."

He cannot return the greeting, as while he has been told names, he does not pair them properly yet, countless strangers attempting to slide into his memories at once. The wounds are still fresh, and should be treated with care.

"I saw Yuken," the familiarity wouldn't be as odd as using a last name that the other has gotten rid off.

Jinkawa, he'll learn minutes later, Sawamura taking him aside to narrate the whole story, slaps a hand against his shoulder. A question seems to be stuck at the back of his throat.

He notes the storm brewing in Ueda Sachio as they sit together, tempest which must have been raging underneath his veins for a long time. Getting worse and then leaving for a while. Is it what mourning is meant to be like? All he has in his chest is the painful video playing over and over, the playfulness and laughter unable to associate with the person he met, gnawing at his own wounds without care, making him pay for something which wasn't his fault.

"Tell us," a pause, "everything."  


That's a demand which isn't fulfilled. Todoroki leaves blanks here and there, phone tucked safely away from them. Selfishness prevailing over the rest. If he dwells too deep, admitting where the other hangs—Arata isn't certain he has a home to return to—wouldn't he lose his sole chance to confront him? To, perhaps, if he has enough courage, returns the memories.  


Yuken, the one he has met, would smash the phone against the ground, refusing to leave without erasing any trace of what could drag him back there.  


He chooses to confide in how exhausted he seemed to be, odd personality, which apparently was already similar albeit not in the negative turn it seems to have taken.  


"He left, not long after the—funeral," Sawamura explains, while Shida keeps on pacing from one side of the room to the other until Ueda shakes his head, forcing him back into a sitting position.

"We haven't managed to figure out his whereabouts."

Delinquents have a code. _You mustn't get involved beyond what the other person wants_ , unless there is no other choice to keep them alive. Isn't it one of those cases? His gaze drifts towards Ueda, awaiting his judgment.  


"Is he happy?"

The simplicity of the question takes Arata aback. He is aware of the answer, even after only crossing paths with Yuken twice.

"No."

"Would he let us back into his life?"  


That one is more tedious, although he doesn't hesitate. He has seen patrons at the bar, similar circumstances, one tragedy throwing them off balance forever.  


"No."

Ueda closes his eyes one moment, palms pressed against his knees.  


"Will he live if he stays like this?"  


"No."

"Save him," as he lifts his head, face hardened with resolve, he makes this demand directly to Todoroki.  


To Yosuke, or to Arata? 

He isn't certain.

Either way, anger is difficult to contain, against someone who pushed everyone away without care. He understands, without remembering the emotion exactly.  


"I will do my best."

  
  



	2. From time to time the stars shine bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, here it is! A lot of warm feelings, and violence in this chapter. Because that's how these kids are.

How are crimes judged? What turns one deed wronger than the other? Yuken, who walks on the railing of countless bridges, arms spread out until wind blows between his fingers, has never known. Of course, murder would, from the absence it causes, the open gash left into families, technically be unforgivable no matter what. However, as the unkind breeze glides between fingers coated in red, he wonders if there is any sense of justice in this world. 

No water underneath him, this time around. No dark streams twirling into themselves, folding bodies like paper cranes. Merely loud trains packed with strangers.

He has never lost his balance doing this—at worst he could simply press his weight on the side, avoiding a deadly fall. Then, why did Todoroki let himself be pushed that day? Ah, finding a culprit if what justice must be about. Nothing to do with assisting victims, only a punishment more or less fit.

Todoroki, a mere fragment of his past, should have ceased to matter long ago. Alongside the rest—meals shared after school, Sachio braiding his hair from hours on practicing on Yui, mocking Shida until the other would snap and chase him around—a collection of memories glued together so tightly he is incapable of removing them at once.

Standing still is impossible, for Yuken, whose body has to be on the run to remain alive these days. That's why he jumps from one bridge to another, burning them one by one. Shouldn't he be relieved that Todoroki is gone for good? Back into—no, he is not.

Inside his pocket, his phone keeps on buzzing, being ignored. 

_Hey, I did the job, hit some guy and now I can't feel my hands, isn't it enough?_

There is dampness against his side, another miscalculation pissing him off. These guys, the ones who pushed Todoroki down, what happened to them, hm? Oh yeah, they got beaten up once or twice.

Couple of broken bones, fake apologies under the pretense of avoiding a scandal; the police aren't going to get involved with delinquents like them. Their names and lives have no value, so why do they bother with seeking a home or affection? Yuken is certain that his past self was weak, running away as he did.

Should have killed them all first.

Recurring thought, hint of horror slipping inside his head and refusing to let go. And then, what would he have done? Dragging bodies one after another, stumbling under the weight before pushing them off the bridge? 

  
  


("You've got a mean streak, both Shida and you," someone says, watching the bruises they inflicted to each other. 

Sharp grin answers them, the truth so clear when they are the one saying it. And what of it? Isn't it alright, to provoke until words melt into agony for the other person?

For one who grew without affection or the longing for it, nothing is weird in such behavior. Shouts bouncing against walls, _make your own dinner, we shouldn't have had you._

What are you supposed to reply?

Bandages tugging at the corners of lips underneath a smile, fist hitting a shoulder as a reprimand. What will Sachio tell them?

_Don't be cruel. Behave._

Whatever.

Isn't it great, to be carefree, to speak without caring, to be unable to get attached?)

  
  


One foot hangs in the air, between life and death, as he contemplates the in-between he chose to tuck himself in until now. Ah, there will be other jobs, different faces to scare away. Why remaining fixated on the ones which leave him breathless and upset?

Blood is starting to dry against his palms, as he rubs one against a cold cheek. Wearing a worker jacket over his tank top is starting to be enough, the weather is getting better. Or his body is losing its touch. Can't afford anything better anyway. He stole that on a construction site the other night.

Jumping back on concrete, he drowns memories as carefully as he can, glancing at the cracked screen of his phone without much interest. Tch, calling him 'Yu-kun', what a fucker. As if he were a kid making mistakes. Spinning the object between his dirty fingers, he considers abandoning it and simply moving into another, starting the cycle of foolishness from the start.

That's such a pain though, to get people to trust someone like him, who shows more pride than he still has, daring to lift his head and grin when he shouldn't.

As he takes a couple of steps, faint drops are heard, hitting the ground one after another. They appear to come from the sky at first, except he cannot distinguish them at all. Then, pressing a hand against his side where the fabric has started to stick to the skin, he understands.

The fight—a blur of insults and unpaid fees piling up to the point it ended in despair—must have been more violent than he thought. Wasn't there a weapon at some point, ridiculous knife to keep him at bay as he climbed over the table, foot hitting the man' skull hard enough for it to resonate across the whole decayed place. 

That might be when the blade ran into his skin—some days, when food is meager and sleep a luxury more expensive than drinking coffee, Yuken barely feels anything at all, strolling next to his body and watching himself make terrible choices with absolutely no way to care—a simple gash in an annoying spot. That was only a slice, not stabbing, he confirms by lifting the fabric. The grey of his jacket has already been tarnished by blood and he just got it. That sucks.

As his legs decide to abandon him, phone slipping off until another crack adds itself to the others, Yuken wonders why his thoughts are filled with so many concepts at once when he cannot grasp any properly.

A hand wraps around his upper arm, keeping him from completely crashing down. His knees are on the ground, although the rest isn't. Ah, bothersome. 

Struggling to keep his eyes open, he lifts his gaze. Square glasses and worry. How unoriginal.

_Why are you back here? Can't be for me.  
_

"Yuken, do you want to die?"

_Well, yeah, thanks for asking, Todoroki. I thought we were past that point by now._

He tries to laugh, to force the sound against his body will, only to pass out right after. 

  
  


Stars invade his vision as soon as he tries to open his eyes one after another.

Usually, those are born from dark spots due to getting up without a warning for his body to deal with the idea. Here, they are born from garlands and drawings, covering walls and even part of the ceiling. He stares, finding his sunglasses folded by his side and putting them on, for what feels like a couple of hours.

Pieces put themselves together slowly. Been a while since he saw something pretty, worthy of being looked at for so long. As he sits up, back against a pillow, he takes notes of the bandages around his torso and left hand, feeling sticky band-aids across his face.

"Can you eat?"

Here comes trouble, struggling to find an empty space to stand properly. That flat isn't big enough for two, let alone three judging from the decoration. Whoever Todoroki has become—that guy who took his face and called it rebirth, he hates him—that cannot be a soul who draws stars and moons to put them around him.

"I'm willing to try," not sure his stomach will cooperate.

With a nod, short and direct, the man sits by his side, opening soup from the store and handing him a spoon.

The bowl is warm against his lap, even if Yuken doesn't bother doing more than twirling the spoon inside the liquid.

"Odajima Yuken," he gets called. That's incredibly funny. Hilarious even.

Odajima Yuken, hm. 

He hates that name.

"Let me guess, Sachio told you my name. And then asked to return me so I could face my fate?~ I've already started putting myself apart without your help."

When they fought, on the first night, his fingers flicked Todoroki's forehead to hide they were trembling. He wanted to throw up, seeing the person he once loved staring at him like a stranger.

This time, when the other raises his hand, precisely hitting him in the same spot, they are perfectly steady.

"Isn't it nice, to put words into people's mouths so you can do as you please?"

"It does help."

His phone is nowhere in sight, he notes. Nor are his clothes. That part is fair, as they deserved to end in the washer. What is wearing is acceptable. Pajamas pants being a little too loose.

Nonetheless—rubbing the sore spot on his forehead with a hand, he glances at the soup still on his lap, getting cold.

"Ueda Sachio asked me to help you."

"Liar."

He has always been loud, trying to be heard above uncaring parents, exaggerating everything for the thrill of it, climbing on Jinkawa's back after battles, getting into arguments with Shida for the sake of having fun—right now though, each word is a chore and all he wants is to leave.

The bowl is removed from his grasp, spoon mixing the contents properly before Todoroki—Arata or Yosuke?—approches it toward his face.

"Must you always complicate everything?"

The exasperation is almost familiar, old conversations in the depths of Oya High, where nobody bothered to check on them. None of that can be retrieved though. He opens his mouth, clenching teeth around plastic with more force than compulsory. 

Not quite as impressive as he had hoped, as the other stares until he accepts to swallow the liquid. It's lukewarm and disgusting; he probably earned that.

Defeat invades his body, he feels ravaged by the past years out of all a sudden, unable to pull a proper fight. They already had two, and he probably lost them both, in the end.

As the spoon is filled again, he doesn't bother closing his mouth, allowing Arata to do as he pleases.

That's less painful, to avoid calling him Todoroki.

After all, he—

Tears start to spill without a warning; one act of kindness ruining everything within seconds, rage boiling itself in burning trails against his cheeks. If you ignore your own heart for too long, isn't it supposed to vanish from existence? Why can't he—

His shoulders are shaking as he leans forward, the gesture causing a sharp pain against his side. Immediately, he hears Arata putting the bowl aside to pay attention to him.

That's enough.

He wants and wants—to go back to the first bridge, to stand firmly so he has to face what was meant to happen, trashing desperately until his body would have hit the water, forgetting to brace for the impact—had the roles been reversed, would he have pushed his lover out of the way? Would have Todoroki been faster, catching him? Maybe maybe and maybe again.

Glasses slid off his face, removed so the lie is exposed, grief exploding onto both of them. One cannot carry memories for two. That's a burden which weights too much, can't the other understand?

In the midst of chaos, his voice is drifting away, sounds lacking a meaning as he watches Todoroki Arata—still Todoroki, same serious face, hint of mischief and pride hidden behind questions which cannot be answered, even less asked—folding the glasses with care, putting them on the nightstand. 

Todoroki inhales, taking the time to fill his lungs properly. And then, he hands out a relic which was supposed to be locked away from evil hands.

"Yuken is Yuken, that's as simple as that."

Sorrow causes a strangled sound to be heard, bandaged fingers snatching the phone away. 

  
  


("Hey, why aren't we even on a first name basis? Aren't we lovers?"

"I don't know. Isn't it fine, to remain as we are now?"

"No big plan for a future together?"

Fondness rather than bitterness. Priorities come and go, so do dreams and lovers. Somehow, that seems enough.

"Do you have any?"

"Of course not! I'm just—having fun."

"Same for me."

"Then you're right, it's fine, To~do-do~roki."

"Pronounce my name properly, you wannabe Murayama."

A kiss pressed against a brow, snickers filling the room.)

  
  


That wasn't yours to discover, Yuken doesn't say.

He slides his fingers across the screen, password unchanged. The date where they met, and fought for the first time—he has to wipe tears with an angry hand, finding himself in front of memories he didn't want as gone as he thought. 

Gallery filled with smiles and youthful egoism; dozens of details he has pushed away, overflowing alongside his tears. 

His life is horrible, a constant punishment for something which wasn't his fault at all. Why can't he accept that?

To do so, he would have been forced to forgive himself.

As he drops the phone on the futon, tears turning into distorted sobs, he wants to say:

_Can't we run back to the start, I'll do better._

He has always been selfish, with love—unknown and difficult to maneuver around laughing at his friends when he shouldn't have, throwing lovers aside on a whim—and everything else too.

Todoroki, with or without memories, doesn't he deserve a greater ending?

Ah, that's naive, to believe he has enough power to make such decision for somebody else.

"I stopped hoping," the voice catches him by surprise, fingers lifting his chin gently, "that there were people in this world who cared about who I was. I told myself that would be fine, to exist as this new me. Yet, I was always stuck between—"

The hand slides against his cheek, and he leans against it; peak stupidity, craving comfort as the tears still refuse to stop ridiculing him.

"—Being who I wanted and wondering who I used to be. Then, I met you."

He relates, brows furrowed as words are on the verge of twisting themselves into what should be hidden. Firmly, stupid pride getting in the way, he presses a hand on top of Todoroki's.

"I couldn't care about myself at all, hey it's my fault, I hate myself," Yuken keeps his voice as steady as possible, although he has to close his eyes to keep going, "who cares if I'm alone, if I forget. I wanna be selfish just one more day. Maybe if I die quickly, I'll join you. Even if you scold me, that would be fine, you know, as long as I can hear your voice one last time? That's what I've been telling myself every day~"

He allows Todoroki's hand to brush his tears away, one after another, trying to catch his breath. Somehow, letting it out after so long—the constant pain in his chest has flared only to ease a little.

"That wouldn't do," the stern tone causes him to smile—crooked and so sad.

"You're scolding me, I'm glad."

What an odd thing to say.

"You're bothersome."

"Ah, better get used to it."

He bites the inside of his cheeks, unsure of what he is even babbling about. Isn't this only some tragic emotional one night stand? Shouldn't they part way the following morning, Yuken burning another bridge and Todoroki rising from the ashes?

"I guess so. Get some sleep, you need it."

Apparently, he is going to be a guest for a little bit longer.

"Yeah yeah~ the soup was disgusting by the way," he grins as if his eyes weren't burning with misery.

Once I'm better, let's have a proper fight, he would have said instead, a long time ago.

Todoroki throws a blanket over his head. 

  
  


How do you return to a home you refuse to acknowledge? Sitting on the bar, holding a colorful drink with pinks and purples twirling into a mess, he observes Todoroki filling paperwork to get only the parts he wishes for back. Seems to be a hassle, changing his first name complicated, accepting his past even harder.

Catching his reflection in a mirror surrounded by neon lights, Yuken glares, teeth munching on a straw. He has lost a lot—is it worth it to bleach his hair once more? To chase for a self he has only mourned for the first time not long ago?

"Noisy."

"I'm not saying anything!"

A hand jolts away from the counter, ruffling his—black and definitely not well cared for—hair for one second, before shoving his head away roughly.

"Your thoughts are being loud and aggravating."

He sticks his tongue out, wondering if Todoroki would dare to touch him so freely knowing all the wrong deeds he has done. 

That guy—yeah, he definitely wouldn't care that much. Yuken wants to seek back his carefree nature, to be able to hope in something. It has been four days, yet he hasn't been thrown out.

That's the longest he has lived in the same place since old days. 

One leg bouncing against a stool, he takes out his phone, the one filled with cracks and problems, names he'd like to ignore flashing on the screen, notifications piling up.

Todoroki returned it too, in the end. The most recent simply reminds him that if he is killed, he should at least give back the objet which was graciously offered first. Piece of shit, hm.

On the long run, can he afford to quit? What Todoroki said—the words exchanged that night, they hold little meaning, don't they?

"Throw it away," Todoroki offers, as if he was slithering inside his head.

He has the old one, which is lacking memory space—that could be solved by deleting out of date applications and getting a new chip and memory card—although it's rough, to be forced to consider happiness each time he uses it.

Yuken shrugs, starting to push the stool off balance with his foot.

"Why?"

Wanna create some sort of disaster—to cause a premature ending to what is overwhelming. Is it kindness, or pity?

Either way, Yuken has to challenge it, to make sure. Everything backfires spectacularly at some point anyway. 

Hands slams on the counter, on each side of his body—stool out of reach now, body standing between his legs.

That's hot, he would say in different circumstances—that kind of affection, a bit brutal, a reminder of Shida, of failed conversations and then tense afternoons without daring to approach each other.

Missed moments.

Yuken abandons drink and phone, fingers tracing Todoroki's face instead—surprised that he isn't getting scolded again. A bit older, sharper than in his memories—he notices the shiver when his thumb rubs against the hairline, scar deeply engraved, running through hair until it reaches the ear—and he wants what has been long gone.

"Yuken."

"Oyo, you're not the person I lost."

Does admitting it out loud makes the truth easier? What a joke, you cannot do that.

Fingers follow the scar, one hand snatching glasses with a hint of rudeness. Isn't it fine, to be a bit angry right now? Combing Todoroki's hair behind his ear, he wonders about that.

Slowly, as if the scene was unfolding itself akin to a paper crane—the parts you folded cannot become straight ever again, every line engraved forever against colorful paper—Todoroki leans forward, until his forehead is resting against Yuken' shoulder.

On instinct, he wraps an arm around his old lover, keeping him closer than he should. The smell is different—that would be a creepy thing to say—from what he remembers.

"You've always called me Odajima, that's why I—" had to part with that name, throwing it after you in the river where neither would be found. This way, that name would belong only to Todoroki. 

_How fucking messed up he is, hm._

"Odajima."

He forgets how to breathe, which is inconvenient.

_Don't,_ he wishes to warn. That's a terrible territory to step into.

Quitting it all for a man who isn't—tears pry at his eyes, thankfully hidden behind colored lenses this time around. Ah, he's turning soft once more, in the way only silly high schoolers in love experience. Anyway, some of his bosses would let him fly off the radar without care... Others, not so much. He has accumulated debts to pay, nights of being a freeloader, no matter how out of balance such relationships always are.

He grabs a handful of Todoroki' shirt so the other has to remain against him a little longer.

"Odajima."

"Quit it! I'm not running away with you, idiot!"

Saying such cruel things without looking directly at him—hands cling to his clothes in the same way he is unable to release the shirt he is holding—that's disgusting. He wants to punch that guy.

"What about coming home?"

"Don't have one anymore, and neither do you!"

"We'll build something then."

He has to muffle a scream, that's unfair, his hands are covered in blood so often, bruised and unable to do more than taunt people who are undeserving of such treatment. He went against all the bullshit honor thing supposed to matter so much to Housen—where would they even live? Can you meet a person, fight them and then accept to surrender your heart so easily?

_Stupid, stupid_.

He wants to joke, to let out a loud 'why not'.

"Fuck you," he snarls instead, letting his arms fall back. Eventually, Todoroki relents his grip too, daring to step back to look at him.

"I've decided I'm not letting you destroy yourself, Odajima."

"I wish I could hate you."

"I know."

Todoroki sits back down, grabbing his pen. 

Odajima violently kicks the innocent stool the closest to him, jumping off the counter to leave the bar right after.

Ah, he's back to that name. 

  
  


(A miscalculated risk, feet pushing against the ground until hands can reach for a familiar blur in darkness.

Still, why would there be regrets, as the body is disregarded without care and surrounded by mockery.

Wasn't saving that precious person more important than anything?)

  
  


Ignoring calls can only last for a while. Ren pushes and pries until Odajima has to hear him unleash a litany of horrors on the other side of the phone. As usual, he mostly hums, uncaring. It has been three weeks—feels longer than that, watching Todoroki behind the bar some nights, others wasted outside, or simply resting.

The evening where he slides into the cramped, mumbling 'I'm back' without thinking, Todoroki and Noriyuki staring, he ends up running back outside, pretending that didn't happen—which isn't that long. He has been offered proper clothes, closer to his old style. That's more comfortable somehow, for sleeves to cover his hands—he cannot stand the sight of them on some days.

There is a weakness to his body which takes longer to heal, sometimes rejecting warm meals, or struggling to sleep enough.

The flat is minuscule, and he's grateful that he mostly sleeps during the day, when he gets a futon to himself at least. There are moments where he wakes up to Todoroki too close—standing in the kitchen space in pajamas, or reading by his side—leaving him unsure he didn't wake up in the past, only for the illusion to vanish right away.

"Todoroki," he starts with, climbing on the bar and sitting on it as if he had always lived there, "I'mma beat up some guy so he leaves me alone."

Some of the patrons give him wary looks. Hey, maybe his line or work is a bit odd, no reason to judge though! Being handed his favorite drink by Noriyuki, he offers a bright expression.

Memories or not, they will always be delinquents like they once were.

"Tomorrow, I'll take the day off."

"I don't need you?"

"Will he be alone?"

"Hm, probably not~"

"Then I'm coming. Exercising is good for the body."

Funnily enough, he considers using Housen as leverage to prove he is capable. The company won't be so bad though.

Ignoring the tension in the room, one salaryman holding his briefcase close to his chest, Odajima accepts the offer, pretending to be a bit annoyed.

"If you can keep up."

"Please, I beat you before."

"Only once."

"More than that."

"If you don't remember, it doesn't count!" 

Children having outgrown their bodies, lacking space to pursue anything, or to tuck dreams somewhere safe, that's who most of the kids at Oya or Housen become little by little. One step after another. Ren isn't different, barely thirty yet already driven apart by boredom and the same orders slipping off his tongue every day.

All they get is the haze of pollution covering the sky, pinks and oranges struggling to go through in the evening sky. Territories are all the same, no matter who owns them; hint of decadence, some destruction here and there—the heavy silence of places which have long be deserted, children forbidden to play outside, reduced to watching violence unfolding itself from balconies, some scared, some wishing they could at least be down so they could feel alive too.

Todoroki does not comment on any of this, pushing away barricades or climbing over them without hesitation. Is it engraved into his body, that craving for violence?

Odajima doesn't truly care for an answer. 

They encounter a couple of people, workers with their head down, worried by the way the duo carries on, as if they were unstoppable. Mostly, Odajima has been a familiar presence around there at some point. Must be why the moving shadows make no gesture to stop them.

Going inside is often easier than leaving. Aren't they simply lurking themselves into a trap? Rusty fists unable to be completely ready for such effort.

Past the point of caring, Odajima halts in front of the love hotel that Ren owns, hands deep into the pocket of his new cardigan. He rocks on his heels for a moment, the place as shabby as he remembers. The hotel is as run down as most places in the neighborhood, definitely not following any safety norm at all.

"So," he starts, "don't die on me again~ That would be rude."

"Shut up."

A hand presses against the small of his back, roughly pushing him forward. Oh well, no river in sight, they should be safe. 

The atmosphere inside is heavy from the poor ventilation and immediately he regrets not throwing the phone away as suggested and leaving it at that.

As if that would have worked. 

Spotting a random woman—a worker, either to satisfy the fools, or merely here to ensure nobody is able to escape, he asks where Ren is, like that was an acceptable question.

She dismissively gestures towards the stairs, showing three fingers to indicate the right floor, although her gaze lingers on them for longer than necessary.

"Don't think the boss would be interested in both of you, unless you plan on simply putting a show for him. "

Odajima laughs at the crude remark, while noticing Todoroki's ears turning red. How adorable.

"Maybe we'll do just that~" 

As they climb the stairs, Odajima spins around, waving his hands into the air. If he misses a step, he's in for a bad fall, not that he appears to mind.

"Hey, you might want to close your eyes, in case we don't find the right door on our first try. Wouldn't want to trouble you~"

In dangerous situations, Odajima tends to—ah when he gets serious, it's ice cold, not leaving anyone free from his wrath—become like that sometimes. Taunting and being on the verge of cruelty for the fun of it.

Hands grab him, stopping the way he was relieving tension, and tugging him down so fast he almost crashes on Todoroki.

"You talk too much, Odajima," lips pressing against his, so fast it's almost a dream, "a clear way to hide a lack of experience."

He hates Todoroki' smirk, or how he simply lets go, abandoning him to go upstairs while he processes what happened.

Oh. 

_Oh fuck_.

"You—I'll kill you, one day! Don't laugh!"

That cannot count as a kiss—not proper, lack of response, completely uncalled for—he wipes his lips with a sleeve, ignoring the tingling sensation inside his chest.

Running through the stairs, he catches up to Todoroki who is already one floor higher than him. Once they reach their destination, they might have to open every door though—Ren lives in one luxury suite and then another, depending on his mood, refusing to touch the cheap rooms below. As they step onto the third floor though, the guards standing at the end of the hallway seem to indicate a pretty clear destination.

He takes off his sunglasses, watching Todoroki doing the same. Although the other puts them properly in a case, staring at how Odajima simply slips them in the inner pocket of his cardigan.

"Yeah yeah, you bought me a case years ago, but I didn't take it with me when I moved."

Out of spite.

"Oh, guess I'll have to get you another."

"How very sugar daddy of you~" He snarls, lips twisting as he starts running straight for the two idiots who have noticed their presence.

The whole kissing business is still on his mind, even when his fist goes straight for the man's face. Despite the hallway being narrow, Todoroki has the decency to drag his guy back enough to give Odajima space to fight on his side. His body has shortcomings, vision going blurry due to the bright shitty lights above him, lack of proper care weighting in his hits.

He manages nonetheless, even if he has to throw all his weight into the guy to make him stagger against the wall, before punching him in the face. Behind him, he guesses Todoroki is doing alright, judging by the way he isn't asking for help.

Hey, would they even do that? In a fight, you should be able to carry your own weight, unless it's unfair from the start on one side. Then helping is allowed. Ah, boring rules. His elbow leaves a cracking sound as it hits the enemy's jaw, and he watches as that idiot sinks dramatically against the wall, defeated.

Oh, Todoroki's fine. Sitting on the guard he picked, punching relentlessly for a moment before realizing he has an audience.

"Missed that, Doroki?"

"Who knows. Do not 'Doroki' me."

"Sure, Doro-doro. These guys are scum anyway."

He doesn't bother knocking on the door, certain that Ren must have heard the commotion outside. And here he is, sitting on the edge of a bed, legs crossed on top of one another, apparently alone. Although that won't last—they can already hear shouts in the stairs.

"Oh~yo, hope we aren't interrupting."

"Yuken, I was wondering what you were doing. Apparently leaving me to elope with some man, isn't it a bit rude?"

"He's better looking than you, and my standards aren't even that high."

On one hand, he doesn't wish for Todoroki to get the wrong idea; teasing is merely part of the job, showing that he is a willing participant in whatever crimes he has to accomplish. On the other, saying such things fill him with glee.

To his credit, Todoroki avoids mentioning they aren't even together. 

Exits have already been blocked, by the time footsteps echo behind them. It's not even about Odajima leaving—he's easily replaceable, lost boys found in every corner around there—merely a power play to prove that individualism has to be punished.

"I suppose you won't mind entertaining me for a while, even if my face is apparently subpar to you."

"We've come all this way, so that would be boring not to fight a little. Todoroki, can you take care of these guys?"

A back presses against his and he considers that he is being unfair; getting lost under a swarm of boring enemies isn't as thrilling as a good one on one. Todoroki isn't complaining, thus it must be okay. 

Ren unfolds himself from the bed, deliberately taking his time to arouse his anger. That's just another face, Odajima reminds himself, one stupid boss among many others. Only this one is especially annoying and won't understand his resignation speech nor accept it.

He throws his—he checks first, as the other kinda matters—work phone at the man's feet, sly expression on his face.

_Here, take it back, fucker._

  
  


Bruises are accumulating, legs struggling to keep with the rhythm, running across the bed with shoes on—sorry, sorry, I don't care—Ren dragging him into short chases to tire his body out. It's working, and the small moments where they are truly fighting, he struggles to focus on his aim, and not be tripped by one of the guys Todoroki is facing. Some are already down, which means he should catch up.

"Yu—"

The sentence dies in the midst of shouts and voices on top of each other. Good, whatever that man has to tell, he has no intention to listen. Only a handful of men are here, either believing the duo to be unable to cause much damage, or perhaps not many are eager to rush to the defense of the trash.

Whatever.

He is a member of Housen Killer Corps. Oh, been a while since he said it to himself, savoring the implications. Without Odajima, the whole team makes no sense anyway; are you gonna admit you're a selfish asshole missing everyone?

_Yes? No?_

_Shut up_.

As Ren starts to dodge again, eager to go back to his cowardly tactic of running across the room to exhaust him, Odajima runs straight for a small table and chair in the way, jumping on the latter. That's enough for him to fly, if only for one second.

His foot collides with Ren's chest, ribs hopefully bruised—broken, who knows?—in a kick which is as impressive as it ruins the little energy he has left. As his ex-boss stumbles backward, he rushes forward, fist clenched and hitting as hard as possible.

He has never been the strongest fighter; he grew up around some of them though and learned enough to keep hair and pride for so long. Being an advisor kind of person doesn't mean he cannot save his own honor.

Ren hits back roughly, causing him to crash by his side on the floor. However, rather than facing him to the end, that coward scrambles back onto his feet to flee. Either to get a weapon or to truly abandon the fight, Odajima cannot tell.

His foot scrapes against the floor as he tries to sit up. Most men have fallen by now, Todoroki standing in the middle of the brawl with sweat on his forehead, struggling to breathe from the effort.

An odd blast from the past, and he waits for the other to push his bangs back while saying that everyone is being a bother. He doesn't, arm raised to shield the sensitive skin on the side of his head instead, when some idiot tries to punch him, Todoroki shoving him back harshly. He turns around, offering a cocky smile to Odajima, still on the ground because it's comfortable, and breathless for all the wrong reasons suddenly.

The man he loves—

Ren didn't leave at all, he understands too late, the change of target—the implication of the empty wine bottle which had been abandoned on the table, grabbed without a warning. He was hiding in the shadows, awaiting for the right moment to strike.

You see, if Yuken loses his reason to leave (live?) —won't it be enough? An appropriate revenge.

Someone screams—'move', sounds like his voice, although silence is deafening, the world melting into another night—as Todoroki is too slow, body having taken a toll from the fight.

The glass bottle shatters against his head, aimed right for the side he was trying to shield at the last second.

Odajima watches—exactly like he did last time, struggling to get back onto his feet, witness to horror without having any possibility to stop it; another excuse—as the scene turns oddly serene. Not a sound, the world slowing down at once, seconds feeling like hours where Todoroki seems taken aback before crashing down.

Drip, drip.

Blood drops hitting the expensive carpet. 

Ren's lips are moving, curled into a pleasant smile—the professional kind, the customer is always wrong—as his foot presses against Todoroki' skull, until blood is starting to ooze out of the wound, way too fast.

_Now now, Yuken, will you be reasonable_? 

All he remembers, after that, is—

  
  


Dying twice, that's how it must feel like. The first time around, memories were lost on the way, right now the pulsing veins against the side of his head are unbearable, jaw hurting when he tries to open his mouth to exhale what's left in his lungs.

For one moment, he can't see properly, lumps of black and red in front of his gaze. After wiping the blood off, it's a bit better. Todoroki has to repress the urge to throw up, nausea making his stomach twirl over itself as he sits up. One trembling palm presses against the gash on his head, the pressure making him wince in pain. No other choice though.

He must have passed out for a while—glass is scattered around him, and he has to thread with care while attempting to get up. The men laying on the floor are long gone, in fact—he blinks, mouth dry and feeling like he is forgetting something important.

He catches a glimpse of colors—blur accentuating the throbbing ache—of nothing but hatred hitting its target, over and over.

He's going to be sick.

Each step is excruciating, to the point he ends on his knees before even reaching the crime scene. Dim corner of the room, table and chair pathetically laying on the side—a piece of glass glimmers in the air for one second before leaving a mark among many others on the unconscious man's chest—he smells blood, unsure if it's his own or not, crawling closer.

By holding the glass piece so thighly, the hand is bleeding, leaving cuts on the expensive suit and everything underneath.

That's **rage**.

He has to repress the urge to throw up, abandoning his head to grab the wrist as the arm is lifted once more.

"I'm alive," that's not enough.

Despair has crushed love, for the second time. He ignores how the fight went, but there is blood on Odajima's face, and Ren isn't capable of saying anything. Todoroki notices how the chest is still faintly rising, deciding it's enough.

Little by little, he lowers Odajima's arm, trying to pry the glass piece off his grasp. 

The other hasn't acknowledged him at all, eyes wide—Todoroki has no idea what to do, as passing out against the floor wouldn't serve either of them.

"I'm alive, Odajima," he repeats, trying to sound firm, although it's more akin to a plea.

Tears are leaving trails against blood-stained cheeks, the other unable to snap out of whatever hell he got locked into. Dark spots are having a fun trip in front of his eyes as he tugs the other back from the body—still alive enough—he is sitting on.

They end up in a weird position, Odajima's back leaning against his chest while Todoroki is struggling not to crash on his side, one leg underneath him. That's uncomfortable.

"Please, I'm alive. Stop."

Fingers are still trashing, the whole arm following as he gets elbowed twice within seconds. At this rate, he might die from his lover's (what is he saying?) panic rather than his wounds.

The glass piece must be so deep inside the palm that Todoroki fears for nerve damage, which is hilarious as he has a head injury which is potentially fatal. Ah, that's easier to put his attention on Odajima than onto himself.

He promised to save the other from such life, and right now, he is certain to have failed.

There would be punching, as a last resort, to force the other to go back to his senses—haven't they endured enough for today? Trembling fingers slide over Odajima's gaze, hoping the lack of visibility won't worsen his state.

"I'm here. I'm alive. Calm down. You're hurting yourself."

He articulates as well as he can, short sentences easier to hide possible signs of brain damage. Are they going to die right there? 

_Let's return home, even if we do not have such place yet.  
_

Ah, is he crying too? He can feel burning tears against his fingers, as they both wish for a different miracle.

Tentatively, a hand reaches for his, while the other ceases to fight, tracing his fingers one after another.

"Doroki?"

A muffled sob, voice shattering entirely onto the last part of the name.

Anger flares inside his chest at the person who dared to cause his—Odajima to ever sound like this. He lowers his hand as gently as he can, letting the body against his turn around so the fact he is among the living is proven.

"Todoroki?"

Aren't they a complete shitshow? Blood on their faces—luckily it seems that Odajima's isn't his—both of them drenched in sweat and tears.

"Still here. With you."

"Promise me you'll stay?"

What kind of question is that?

After a brutal battle, Odajima unclenches his fist, hissing in pain as he is forced to pry it open with his other hand, revealing glass deeply impaled into the skin. Better not remove it himself, Todoroki decides, that could result in blood pouring out violently. Exactly the same as his head. Which is becoming an urgency too.

"I promise, don't cry," he tugs him against his chest once more only for a weak fist to collide against his ribcage.

"You're the one who made me cry, asshole."

That's better.

"Don't ever go die on me, again," a hoarse voice orders as he feels the other shivering against him.

"About that, hospital time. Now."

He worries, when Odajima pulls back, fear back into his eyes. Resolve drowns the emotion though, when he manages to get back onto shaky legs, holding most of Todoroki's weight on him. 

They walk on glass, almost slipping in their own blood—they make it nonetheless.

Wary people stare at them while they climb down the stairs step by step. While nobody offers to assist, there is also no attack nor attempt at stopping the duo.

The woman from earlier walks past them, calling for medical help, her tone suggesting she doesn't truly mind whatever happens to his boss. She doesn't call anybody for them though, and once outside, they have to call Noriyuki—no ambulance will come past the barricades, better not be too hopeful.

"Pick us up," words are slurred as Todoroki leans on Odajima more than the other can handle in his state, causing both of them to crash on the sidewalk, Todoroki hissing in pain as he manages to give out their location.

By his side, Odajima is staring at the night sky in awe, ignoring the desolation around them, nor the fact he is pressing his injured palm directly against the ground. If he weren't struggling not to pass out, Todoroki would worry of the lack of pain Odajima seems to be experiencing.

"I'm free," he hears the whisper, and he lifts a hand to tug the other so he is laying next to him.

"You are."

"I'm not free because we beat that guy up, idiot."

Confused, brain damage certainly not helping the situation, not that he can politely explain that, Todoroki awaits an explanation.

"You're with me, that's—enough. Everything."

Todoroki definitely wants to throw up, he listens nonetheless, fingers threading through Odajima's hair as he babbles sentences which are making less and less sense as minutes go by.

By the time Noriyuki reaches them, old car parking in the middle of the street in a terrible fashion, almost hitting them, he thinks it's nice to have someone by his side.

Then, the stars and the world go blank at the same time. 

  
  


He has a killer headache upon waking up, constant pounding against the side of his head. Bandages heavy against his skull.

On the bright side, he's alive. The nonsense of the previous—he hopes he hasn't been out for longer than that—night slowly returns to him. They were incredibly foolish, by not seeking medical assistance right away. The horror of what they went through, of Odajima's blank face and tears—it feels lost in the distance, he wouldn't be able to explain.

He dreads hospitals, he remembers that detail while staring at pale walls and lonesome television too high for him to watch without craning his neck uncomfortably. Nurses stepping in all the time, for countless checkups, repeating questions, machines beeping endlessly by his side.

The door slides open, revealing a familiar figure, pushed by a nurse who seems relieved to see him awake. How many times has Odajima requested to be wheeled in up to that point? He immediately gets up without assistance once close enough, steps wobbly. 

Before the nurse can intervene, he's already sitting on the bed, kind of pushing Todoroki without much gentleness—nothing out of the usual—and then dangling his feet into the air. Without judging, the nurse only wraps his bag of fluid to the same pole as Todoroki's.

They are an unusual sight—perhaps everyone can see it, without minding as much as he feared.

Their conversation has to wait, the nurse grabbing his chart to go through the whole post-surgery routine. Ah, they had to operate then—he isn't exactly shocked by the news. After taking a couple of painkillers and being told she'll be back within the hour, the nurse offers some privacy.

Thus, Todoroki guesses that Odajima is staying until then.

There is a bright cast around his hand and wrist, purple wrapped around white. He is cradling it against his chest, leaving Todoroki to wonder if it's painful.

He reaches for Odajima's face instead, palm pressing against his cheek. The way the other immediately leans against the touch brings warmth to his chest. Being wanted—belonging with someone, that's not compulsory to live. He enjoys it nonetheless.

"This time, I haven't forgotten you."

The smile he receives is crooked, heavy with emotions he shouldn't have brought up so quickly. Must be the—whole stage they are standing on, waving at misery over and over. If he wishes to be a smartass with such comment, why not after all?

_Hasn't he earned some bitterness?_

Odajima tilts his face back, bruises covering his skin. He's still smiling; it's painful, to have been on the verge of losing everything a second time.

"Fuck you, Todoroki~"

Rather than running away, or shouting, he gradually lowers his body until they are resting against each other—he has to scold that idiot for laying on his IV drip, it's a mess to manage to reach a position which isn't too uncomfortable. There are tubs twisted together, as Odajima's linked to his non-dominant hand due to the cast, and he fears that when one of them will try to get up, it'll be a disaster, tubes getting ripped off and nurses scolding them.

Oh, that can wait.

He contemplates the person by his side, one leg refusing to be still, tracing lines into the air, off the bed just enough for him to catch a glimpse of a foot from time to time. The lack of space becomes more and more apparent as he tries to grab Odajima's hand, tucked underneath his body for convenience. The other almost rolls off the bed to be able to free it. 

That's ridiculous—and he finds himself laughing warmly.

Soon, Odajima joins him.

Glee invades the room until it's only them left in the world, wounded idiots with bandages and casts, bruised ribs and too many tears.

As he notices the man against him squinting, Todoroki hesitates.

"You broke your sunglasses again didn't you?"

"Yeah, as expected from me. I'll get new ones, and since I'm here they gave me a full evaluation for my eye disease for free. So I'm gonna get a better treatment now~"

"That's a disease then. I thought your eyes were simply sensitive," he presses his lips against Odajima's brow.

"Yep, sensitivity to light is only a symptom. I can't be outside during the day without them for too long."

"Then we'll be more careful."

"We?"

"Together."

_Let's build a house out of new memories, adding them day after day. How cheesy_.

Pushing his cast against Todoroki's chest to rise a little, which is an awful idea, Odajima leans to kiss him properly, unlike the day before. Lips slightly parting, and nothing but that moment. Todoroki would enjoy this a bit more if that moron wasn't half trying to crush his lungs; that's great anyway, in that post-disaster kind of way, one hand pressing against the back of Odajima's head to keep him close.

  
  


A whole week has to be wasted, or rather used for him to recover. The headache remains albeit to a tolerable extend, by the time he finds his, dearly missed, futon. And—lover, he guesses, in the tiny space. Odajima got out after only three days, which isn't exactly fair. He has to return for checkup too though as the surgery on his hand will require physical therapy for the nerves to function as before. Later, Todoroki will change his bandages, complaining about not having been able to wash his hair for too long, starting to feel itchy. Only a couple more days for that. 

Neither of them cares right now, as they share a warm meal, listening to the music coming from the bar downstairs.

"Feed me~"

"You still have one functioning hand."

"Todoroki, come on."

"Noisy. I'm the one with a head injury. "

He gets kissed, brief peck on his lips, as a way to convince him to relent. Soon, they'll be in bed like old people, medication taken after their meal, pile of blankets on their bodies.

"Once they remove the staples, I'll wash your hair for you in return, isn't it enough?"

"Fine."

He finds amusing that Odajima beams at his answer, letting out exaggerated sounds to show his happiness at being cared for by a decent house husband. That's kind of fun, though.

"Love you, Doroki," he hears against his back when Odajima slips underneath the covers one night.

Oh. 

_Oh.  
_

"Me too, now sleep."

"Mean~"

"You don't mind."

"Nope, I love Todoroki. Arata and Yosuke."

Both mine, Odajima claims proudly into the night filled with garlands and fake stars. Todoroki rolls around to stare at the happiness on his face, dragging the blankets over both of them until they are hidden from sight. 

  
  


As Spring approaches, Odajima asks Todoroki for money. Not a large amount, merely enough for a proper haircut. It has grown—not quite as long as it used to be and he definitely doesn't want to bleach it right now; the memories would be terrifying. Thus, he asks, not having a job or his own place or anything to offer in return.

Ah, isn't he abusing Todoroki's fondness towards him?

That doesn't matter, as long as he repays him in one way or another. Planning is hard, their goal of moving out, Noriyuki throwing pillows at them when they are too loud, feels distant and complicated to reach. Physical therapy keeps on tugging him down, nerve damage refusing to heal as fast as he'd like.

_You'd never be able to punch as well as before_ , he is told as if he were a child relying on anger and violence to get his way. _Your life will be different from now on.  
_

Sometimes, objets escape his grasp, chopsticks getting trashed, phone having to be caught with his other hand right before it touches the floor; he wonders if it's some sort of punishment for craving revenge. Nah, that's life. He deals, he accepts.

He starts relying on his left side a bit more, going through another surgery and then a brace he has to wear most of the time. Better than a cast! He decorates the black fabric with patches of colors, wrapping bandanas around the wrist.

Todoroki hasn't forgotten anything, outside of a few minutes which don't matter, thus that's okay.

_Cut a bit here and there, make it beautiful_ , he tells the hairstylist, resisting the urge to spin on the chair.

_Make me worthy of going back, if only for a single day.  
_

Ah, Odajima has decided to return to Housen.

That's a bit late, promises crushed, friendships impossible to mend.

Running on what-ifs is unforgivable, he tells himself as scissors adjust more than they remove. He hasn't cared about himself for a long time, and that's a lesson imprinted inside his palm forever. He clenches his fist, at least tries to, fingers trembling and not all of them equal with the gesture.

When he hears the voice saying that's finished, sunglasses are slipped on, shielding eyes from the heavy lights, chain brushing against his neck.

_Thank you very much~_

_I'm me again._

  
  


The scars on Todoroki's head have ceased to grow like weeds, multiplying due to neglect. Now, he has the initial mark and two smaller ones, and Odajima knows them by heart, tugging his lover down for hungry kisses every day, palm pressed against the sensitive area.

"Let's visit our old town," he says, sparkles in his gaze.

"Unannounced?"

"Yep, this way no one will have time to get angry."

Or to deal with the implications of such meeting.

It's brave only to Odajima, which he doesn't care about. He doesn't dread consequences as strongly as he used to. 

After all, didn't he go to Hell and back? 

Losing his lover, meeting a reincarnation—attempting to run away only to be caught, to face the same scene twice only with different protagonists. Ren has survived, on good mornings it's a relief, on others, when Todoroki isn't by his side as he stirs awake, Odajima shatters and has to put himself back again to look for him.

"You're being annoying," he gets told, pacing in front of the bathroom door until it slides open, "like a housecat."

He hisses in return, playfully showing his teeth to hide the discomfort he felt at the absence, the sudden silence.

He's a greedy asshole, clinging and complaining, hiding his face against Todoroki's back—please don't leave again—only enough to find his strength back. 

  
  


They walk back from convenience stores, holding bags together, careful not to drop anything, hey what do you like to eat, let's try to make something nice today; rainy afternoons at the laundromat, watching clothes spinning in the dryer as a downpour deafens everything at once. It's all warm when they get it back, Odajima getting scolded for not folding everything properly, wishing to wrap himself in fresh blankets.

Todoroki stares off in the distance sometimes, splits on which life to follow. He drags him to the library, to that tea shop he seems to be so affectionate towards until the other returns to him.

They fight. Sparring sessions at the abandoned playground, weeds sliding underneath pants and sand infiltrating their shoes. They're clumsy, as if love had made them afraid. Of losing each other, or worsening injuries turned into scars. The first time that Todoroki kicks too high and Odajima tries to block with his right arm, foot smashing into his hand, brace doing nothing, there are tears in his eyes as he cradles his arm close, fingers unable to stop trembling.

"That's nothing," he snaps at Todoroki—we were never fragile, we still are not, get your shit back together—ignoring how his skin is burning, "wipe that guilt off your face."

He could punch him in the head, as payback, only to realize he worries about hurting him too; watching memories pour from the wound, slithering in the ground to disappear forever. How foolish.

"Our first fight, you kicked me in the stomach so hard I had a bruise for days," he comments as if the words were supposed to help, shaking his wrist until the pain lessens, "That was fun."

He smiles, putting the left side of his body at the front this time around. While there is a long hesitation, Todoroki eventually nods, repeating the kick. Odajima fails to block perfectly, staggering a bit.

A bit of relearning has never hurt anybody.

"Again, Doroki."

He swears that each kick gets more precise, and so do his moves to shield himself. He even gets to block and attack right after taking the other off guard a couple of times.

That's romantic, in a wicked way that only people like them can understand. Heated kisses between punches, laughter under the night sky; the person he wouldn't bear to lose acknowledging him as his equal, that's enough.

Soon, they'll face Housen. He has to be ready.

  
  


The train ride in the morning is a silent affair, not many wanting to walk straight into a town which has been deemed beyond saving. Ah, that's how the country as a whole is. There are levels of acceptance depending on where they are, that's all.

Odajima jumps onto the platform with both feet, boots hitting the ground loudly. Well, isn't nostalgia a dirty liar making memories nicer than they certainly were? The station is in shambles, a lonesome agent hiding behind a glass window, refusing to acknowledge them.

"Aren't we making a detour," Todoroki remarks as they head towards the subway station, glancing at his phone and the map he needs, "wouldn't be it shorter to take—"

Silence. Understanding.

He cranes his head back a little, tongue sticking out at his lover.

_That's the bridge where I lost you_ , Odajima doesn't say. Instead he awaits for a choice. He'd rather not step on it, or anywhere close. However, as Todoroki lifts his head, offering his hand, he is aware that's not his choice to make.

Fine, let's face a traumatic part of their past, what's the worst that could happen? 

  
  


The flowers and bits of sorrow are long gone, certainly with the return of the missing. Or, maybe the wind, or the town's apathy, took care of removing everything without awaiting for assistance. Todoroki lets go, walking to the railing and crossing his arms on the metallic structure. It's more solid that it seems, bright blue long turned into rust due to endless rainy saisons, some parts moving slightly if you push all your weight against them. It's holding on though.

Todoroki stares at the water twirling and twisting below, how inviting it once was, swallowing him without a second thought. Odajima has to repress the need to tug him back, to cling to his jacket like a crying child so he doesn't disappear again.

He faces his own fear by stepping forward, daring to offer a quick look at the river. Since the weather is rather kind the demon he remembers has been tamed, barely going its way without causing damage.

With the brace it's a bit difficult to lift his weight on the creaking railing. He gets his way anyway, standing where he should have been the one to die two years ago.

"You shoved me out of the way, so I wouldn't get killed, Yosuke."

_I never got to say thank you, or to punch you for that_.

"I don't regret it, Yuken."

He laughs at that answer, a tad bitter still.

_Am I allowed to say that I do? Definitely not._ He watches, behind colored shades, Todoroki grabbing his hand, applying pressure against the brace. That's okay, he isn't going to jump. Not today or any other. Either as he was running on bridges, setting them ablaze in his mind, he wouldn't have been able to—

He searches for words, not finding any. Instead, he climbs back, noticing that Todoroki hasn't let go yet. If anything the way he is holding his hand is starting to be painful.

"Let's go," he allows the gesture to last until they are off the bridge, before making their shoulders collide so Todoroki gets the message. 

  
  


The bald students are an unchanged sight. Some question their presence without a word, although Odajima doubts that they recognize him; he has new sunglasses, in spite of them having a chain not being common, and everything else is different to some extend. He forces confidence in his steps nonetheless, feeling Todoroki's presence by his side.

The other is akin to a butterfly, beautiful and short-lived, or so everyone thought, capable of enduring a lot more than anticipated. And it's easy to imagine colorful wings surrounding both of them, as protection from the world. Ah, he's being a bit dramatic~

The school entrance isn't as impressive as in his memories—perhaps because he went from loathing to idolizing this place depending on the night, and how lonely he felt—and he takes a moment to contemplate the figures in the distance, tight group where he doesn't belong.

"Oi!"

He shouts at the top of his lungs, hands against his face to allow the sound to be even stronger. There is silence, Odajima wishing to take that back right away and simply leave, and then a scream.

A terrifying sound, honestly. He braces for impact as Jinkawa lurches forward without a warning, watching Todoroki stepping aside. Hey, you're being such a great support, he wants to tease. He has no time to do so as arms grab him and—

Oh he hasn't expected it would be a hug. Neither that Jinkawa would lift him off the ground like that.

Laughter escapes him, even once he's back on his feet. Hands grab his shoulders, stopping him from making a quick escape.

"You better have an explanation for what you did."

"Move, I'mma ask him better than that!"

Shida, childhood friend who doesn't hesitate to raise his fist before adding anything; what a jerk, if he didn't have a similar mean streak, Odajima would be heartbroken. Luckily, he dodges, stepping back.

"Not even saying hello first?"

"Hi, what the fuck are you doing there?"

Betrayal is painted on both of their faces, under different colors; trust broken, red and burning, and a hint of hope, pink on cheeks. He lifts his hands, waving them without finding out what to say, which causes his sleeve to slip, Shida grabs his wrist—he has to close an eye, muffling a sound of pain—inspecting the brace. It's kind of evident that's not a short-time fix as his fingers start trembling from the pressure quite quickly.

"Stop," calm like the eye of the storm, Sachio—first name basis, always, even now—removes Shida's grip so Odajima can bring his arm against his chest, "you're back."

"Only for a visit, Sachio." Perhaps he is overstepping boundaries, believing himself to be allowed such familiarity when this right has been revoked.

Ignoring him—which hurts more than Shida's brutal concern—his old leader turns to Todoroki, barely lowering his head.

"Thank you for taking care of Yuken."

"I love him, I don't mind."

That's a blunt statement to make, the kind which lifts his spirits a bit. He isn't a problem child though. Well, he kinda was when he vanished he supposes.

"I see."

None of them have graduated, still undefeated. He supposes that Sachio, who wanted to go to college, will relent his role at some point. Odajima is sort of proud, from afar. He isn't going to get his place back, nor he wishes for it.

Hurtful. His chest is filled with sorrow as he contemplates what has been missed and tossed away without care. Someone is talking, and he can't even listen.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, "please forgive me," he isn't the carefree person he was. There are still bits of that Odajima, scattered around his mind. He likes to embrace them, when he wants to unleash his heart and race Todoroki through empty streets, fighting on the playground or anywhere else. Or when they make love and then raid the convenience store for a meal not long after, Todoroki' shirts swallowing him as the other complains because he grabbed the wrong shoes and they are mismatched messes, behaving like idiots in love.

Right now, as he notices Sawamura and Sabakan standing a couple of feet away, Sachio's distrust surrounding all of them—he presses his hands against his knees, lowering himself. Sunglasses try to slide off, although they stay on his face in the end. "I was so selfish—heartbroken."

His heart isn't completely whole, he is patching missing pieces with new ones, some unfitting, others better than before.

"You're not a member of Housen any longer," he hears Shida making an attempt at interrupting Sachio, which is a bold move. Albeit not needed, "you have lost that position."

His arms are grabbed, forcing him upright. Sachio pushes his sunglasses up, with less animosity than earlier. He's the kind of guy who can't forgive himself when the ones he loves are hurt—

"You're a friend in spite of your shortcomings, Yuken. We have never ceased to hope for you to realize that."

Shida wraps an arm around his shoulder, kind of squeezing too strongly on purpose—asserting dominance or something—and Odajima has no witty reply on hand.

"Idiot thought we had forgotten him, tch."

"You could have—"

"No," His old leader's voice is firm and he doesn't know what to say.

"Will you fight me," sounds like a clever option. Todoroki hides a smirk behind the back of his hand, which he notices out of habit. Hey, he can challenge people too!

"Do you think you can win?"

"I want to show Sachio my heart, and I think it's the best way~"

The earnest explanation seems to take Ueda aback but then his expression softens.

"Sure."

  
  


To say Odajima gets his ass kicked is a polite understatement.

He is certain that Sachio hasn't spared him from his feelings, which is a relief. His fists had an interesting way to transmit those though. And he grins with blood on his tongue by the time they are done. He has a new Line account, and he shares it, making sure he'll write this time around.

As for the wounds inflicted in the past, you can't lick them until they are infected, you have to let time nurture the gashes and slowly turn them into scars or memories. 

Sachio watches him take his glasses out of the case where they were during the fight and his first comment is: "You've changed."

Hey, is it truly a compliment? Why is everyone so worried about his sunglasses getting damaged? He leans heavily against Todoroki, allowing the other to put an arm around his shoulders, grateful. Enough to kiss him on the cheek.

(Nobody comments on that, and he's grateful.)

"Let's stop at Starbucks, on our way to Oya High. I want—something fun!~" A drink with cool colors.

Todoroki takes a moment to process the words. If they came this far why not go to see his friends too?

"Oh, been a while since we've visited them, right?" Sawamura suggests.

What follows is a first aid kit being taken out, a fifteen minutes wait at Starbucks and then all of them together on the subway. It's an odd ride, without much conversation outside of Sawamura patching Sachio and then Odajima, asking if everything's alright.

Yui got accepted in a good college, and he is thinking of proposing once he manages to find a stable job and graduate himself. There must have been an awful lot of work on Sachio's part as he doesn't appear to be too bothered for his standards—Odajima can tell he doesn't approve although he has learned to step back, rather than suffocating his sister. 

He's glad about that. 

  
  


Oya High is as loud and filled with energy as ever, Todoroki welcomed with nicknames and people rushing to him.

Yeah, that was a compulsory stop, Odajima praises himself, chewing on his straw. He ordered a seasonal drink, out of nostalgia perhaps. Long hours spent with friends after school. Ah, in spite of his injuries he has outgrown the need to ask Jinwaka for piggyback back rides, or to pester Shida for the sake of old times.

"You're happy," Sawamura tells him, as they sit on that ugly couch which has been ravaged by time, "with that guy. Although he doesn't remember half of what you do."

"Memories—you can create brand new ones," he leans against his old teammate, body aching and feeling like taking a nap right here. He has always been a bit too much, kind of a nuisance from time to time, "that's the wisdom I have acquired, ka~ching!" he lets out a victory sound, brightly.

Not pushing him away, Sawamura instead adjusts his posture so he can be more comfortable. Yui is truly lucky, with a guy like that.

"Congratulations."

He waves at Todoroki, who is busy being surrounded by new kids wanting to bask in stories from the past he cannot tell them, although he still carries the same attitude and strength. The sight isn't too bad. 

He smirks, when his lover sits on his empty side.

"Jealous?"

"You drool on me every night, so not really."

"I do not drool!"

"You're still clingy."

"You wanna fight, Doroki?"

People are cheering for a duel now, while Sawamura is merely embarrassed, if the blush on his cheeks is anything to go by. A fist hits his head, ruffling his hair.

"Yuken, no more fighting for today."

"Yeah yeah, Sachio~"

"And stop giving us so many details about your love life."

"Ro~ger."

A comment that Todoroki seems to approve, lame as he is.   
  


They go home with a weight off their shoulders—and from Todoroki's bank account too, considering they end up going to a restaurant with too many people that evening.

  
  


Noriyuki has been there for longer than them, almost a part of the furniture, watching people come and go. Todoroki sits down with him, in the middle of boxes Odajima and him are filling for their new place, watching the almost thirty years old man playing with his tarot deck, nostalgia written on his face.

"Does your offer for a reading still remain?"

"Of course, we only need some space."

The coffee table is emptied, old mugs and magazines forgotten on the floor. They sit in front of each other, Noriyuki giving instructions as he mixes his cards, before gently tapping them with two fingers.

Once the deck has been cut and divided a couple of times, Todoroki gets drawn into the process, picking a couple of cards. Does he believe in any of this? Who knows. Fate has tempted him many times up to that point.

"Oh reversed Hierophant, that makes sense. Challenging things, moving forward and going against the flow to find yourself. It's very Todoroki, isn't it?"

Palm against his cheek, he nods, listening to the explanation, and the following ones. Death, the last one to greet him, isn't as terrible as he thought.

"A transition—leaving the nest and starting anew."

"Why haven't you?"

Personal questions have been avoided since they know each other, and while he intends on still working at the bar, he has decided to ask nonetheless. Now that he has found his place in this world, creating bonds has become interesting. He doesn't want to be that lonely person any longer.

"After all this time?"

"Better than never."

Slowly dragging the cards back on his side of the table, his roommate starts to unravel his story.

"My family has accomplished nothing outside of horrible deeds, rich assholes, the worst of them all—leading the youngest child to believe their mother is a monster. She's simply mentally unwell, and she wouldn't be, if my father and grandmother weren't controlling freaks too attached to their image. So I ran away, and I'm making as much money as I can to get a lawyer so I can rescue her out of there and pay for her medication."

The smile is strained—Noriyuki with painted nails and heavy makeup around his eyes, glitter and bracelets, never without his tarot deck, the fallen son, the child who got out—and he understands a bit better.

"I'm a freak like her, so it's okay! Anyway, you're leaving, and Yu too. So I'll have plenty of space again."

Pressing his elbow on the table, he offers his hand to Todoroki, who grabs it within seconds.

"Thank you for telling me."

"Invite me to your place sometimes, okay? And take my shifts when I'm tired. I'm in your care."

"Don't push your luck."

Before they can add anything, the front door opens to their third roommate, a bit out of breath.

"Come on, what are you doing, there are too many customers for me to deal with them. And old ladies are hitting on me again," he complains.

"That's your fault for being beautiful and smooth with everyone, idiot."

"Doroki, I can't do anything about that!"

He can kind of see why Noriyuki is eager to go back to have the place for himself though.

An array of boxes greet him every morning for two weeks—mislabeled disaster, felt-tip marker written on the wrong side of every box, emergency runs to the convenience store for sponges and other little things they have completely forgotten about—as they have to walk to work and adjust first. 

It's a bit of a gamble, to believe they'll manage to always pay the rent and bills, that they won't get dragged into another scheme. Odajima waves at strangers on the streets, never explaining where he knows them from, although sometimes his smile isn't quite right.

They learn to hold hands in public, to push conventions and rules aside in favor of their own well-being. Each night, when one of them says 'I'm back' the other replies 'welcome home', and that's perfect.

When it's not enough—on days where his head is pounding, when the missing pieces are leaving a gap inside his mind, Odajima pushes him into the bathroom:

"Hey I prepared the bath for you, soak until dinner. I'll cook something delicious, just watch!"

Tongue out in concentration, he watches his lover making a spectacular attempt at using ketchup to draw on—kind of failed omurice where the contents are spilling from every corner.

"It's delicious," he praises, "a shame that's ugly."

And Odajima snickers in an adorable way, daring him to do better.

They spend their next day off watching cooking videos on Youtube, flour covering their hair and badly dosed spices in everything. That's the happiest he has ever been.

At night, when Odajima is woken up by the ache spreading from his palm into his whole arm, he tugs him against his chest, pressing kisses against soft hair until he falls back asleep.

What would his younger self—Todoroki Yosuke, the proud fighter who hated to rely on others until Oya taught him that was fine—have to say about such softness?

He'd like to think he would be proud of the journey he managed to accomplish. 

Todoroki Arata is glad to have this life, and nothing else matters


End file.
